


Homecoming

by Boton



Series: The Road to Appledore [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brotherly Affection, Character Study, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Gen, Holmes Brothers, Hurt/Comfort, Medical, Missing Scene, No Slash, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-27 11:48:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2691833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boton/pseuds/Boton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock was released from hospital months after the events in Leinster Gardens, he couldn't go straight back to 221B. The only option seemed to be a stay with Mycroft, where the two brothers resumed their contentious, snarky interactions.  But as Mycroft reflected on his relationship with his little brother, it became clear that his actions spoke louder than his words ever could.</p><p>Missing scene from His Last Vow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and his universe are the creation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Sherlock is the creation of the BBC and its partners, and of co-creators Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. This work is for my pleasure and that of my readers; I am not profiting from the intellectual property of those creators listed above.
> 
> Author's Note: One of the most interesting relationships to emerge from season/series 3, for me, is the one between Mycroft and Sherlock. We get just the barest hints of it in Conan Doyle canon, but in Sherlock it is developing into one in which Mycroft truly does worry about his brother "constantly" (as we saw in "Study in Pink") but has little real idea of how to express that concern. The need for Sherlock's recovery post-Leinster Gardens to take up a great deal of time between summer and Christmas afforded me the chance to see what it would be like if Sherlock came home from hospital -- to Mycroft's house.

Sherlock heard Mycroft’s approach before he saw his older brother, the rhythmic tap of his umbrella hitting the floor with each step, giving warning of the oily smile that soon appeared in the doorway of Sherlock’s hospital room. Anthea appeared right behind Mycroft, enigmatic expression and mobile phone at the ready as always.

“Ready, brother mine? Or would leaving via the window be more your style?” Mycroft snarked, hiding his true feelings behind a layer of antagonism, just as the pair had done since they were children.

In truth, Mycroft was taken aback at how Sherlock looked. Sherlock perched on the edge of the bed, hands wrapped around the edge of the mattress, his usual easy but proud posture broken as he curled slightly forward to protect the still-sore incision scars. The color had returned to his skin and the curls tumbled randomly on his head as always, but it was clear he had lost far too much weight and muscle during his time in hospital. His suit coat hung slightly from his shoulders where once it was perfectly tailored to his frame, and his favorite aubergine shirt appeared loose where once the buttons had strained to accommodate the muscles of his chest. 

Most of all, Mycroft thought, Sherlock just looked tired. Where once it had been easy to mistake Sherlock for a man in his 20s, his time in hospital had aged him, making him look much more like a man closer to 40 than he was to 30. Mycroft wondered if he’d ever be able to look at Sherlock and see his baby brother again.

“Mycroft, I’ve told you repeatedly, this is totally unnecessary,” Sherlock said. “There is no reason in the world I can’t go home to Baker Street.”

“There are many reasons, Sherlock, starting with the fact that it’s still taxing for you to walk up and down the corridors here, to say nothing of your ability to run up and down the stairs to your flat and find the energy to make your meals. You’d be dead in a week, and I would hate for Mrs. Hudson to have to fumigate the flat before she tried to rent it out to another tenant,” Mycroft sneered, reverting to abuse to cover his concern. “I won’t even notice you are staying with me; in fact, I’ll make a point of just that,” Mycroft said as he went to the wardrobe to retrieve Sherlock’s leather satchel and took the discharge instructions and prescriptions from the bedside table. The latter he handed to Anthea, muttering, “See that these are filled immediately.” Anthea nodded and strode smoothly off to the in-hospital chemist.

“Yes, fine,” Sherlock said shortly, giving in far sooner than he would have usually, yet another clue that he was far from completely recovered. Mycroft pretended not to see Sherlock wince as he stood, and the pair made their way slowly to the elevator and out the front doors of The London, the crisp early October air cool against their faces. Mycroft resisted the urge to assist Sherlock as he got into the back seat of the car, then joined him from the other side and bid the driver to continue home. Anthea was already in the front seat, having completed her errand for prescriptions.

The trio rode in silence, only Anthea acting at all normal as she stared intently at her phone. In the back seat, Sherlock stared out the window, chin propped in his hand. Mycroft stared straight ahead, resisting the urge to look over to check on Sherlock or inquire as to how he felt. Such things just weren’t done between them, and, without a buffer like John, Mycroft didn’t know how to approach caring for his brother without setting him off.

In fact, in many ways, Mycroft wished John had been available to care for Sherlock after his release from hospital. John was one of the very few people that Sherlock would accept any kind of compassion from. The fact that John was also a doctor would have made it even easier; had John still been living at 221B, he could have made a joke that he’d lose his medical license if he let Sherlock die on his watch, then gone ahead to provide whatever care Sherlock needed during his convalescence.

But when Mycroft suggested John, intending to pay the man for hours lost from his work at the surgery, Sherlock gave a vehement, “no.” “I just got him to go back home to Mary, Mycroft! They still aren’t speaking, but he’s finally taken a step toward repairing his marriage. I’m not going to tear that apart because my body won’t behave!” he fumed.

So, Mycroft’s place it was. The car rolled up to the front door, and, once again uncharacteristically, Sherlock waited for Mycroft to come around to his side of the car and cup his hand under Sherlock’s elbow, giving him support as he got out of the car and made it into the house.

“Home sweet home, brother dear,” Mycroft said in a saccharine tone.

“Is it?” Sherlock replied. “Or is it just a museum housing your battle trophies?” He looked around at the immaculate, sterile surroundings dotted with rare art pieces, packed but organized bookshelves, commendations, and the memorabilia of a man who had cut everything but work from his life.

Mycroft escorted Sherlock back to the first floor guest room, a cool, spacious room decorated in a masculine monochromatic palette of white, grey, and black. He saw Sherlock’s gaze flick longingly toward the bed as his posture sagged another notch.

“Are you feeling pain, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked softly, broaching the subject that hung unaddressed in the air.

“Manageable,” Sherlock muttered.

Mycroft went to the bureau drawers that he had already stocked with some of Sherlock’s belongings he brought from 221B, and he extracted a pair of blue pajama trousers, pants, and a grey t-shirt, all freshly laundered. “Why don’t you take a shower and put on something more comfortable? I daresay you don’t have to stand on ceremony around here,” he said with an unexpected kindness in his voice.

Sherlock took the clothing and went into the en suite with barely more than a grunt. Mycroft sagged onto the bed, staring worriedly at the closed door.

He didn’t know how his relationship with Sherlock had gotten so difficult. When they were younger, Sherlock idolized his older brother. Everything Mycroft did or said or thought, Sherlock wanted to emulate. And Mycroft had encouraged him. 

Mycroft had a difficult time transitioning to public school as a young man; his first real interactions with his age peers came at the same time he was living away from home for the first time, away from the comfortable circle of adults who understood and encouraged his prodigy. But at school, Mycroft was immediately called out as different, teased mercilessly, and left to learn to hide his feelings. He never wanted his little brother to have to feel that same sense of isolation, so he tried to teach Sherlock the most extreme sort of self-reliance. Sherlock would not have to bear the scars that Mycroft did if he learned to protect himself early.

But although Sherlock learned his lesson from Mycroft well, he resented rather than appreciated the change in his big brother. Mycroft remembered his always-affectionate baby brother running away in tears as, on that first holiday home from school, Mycroft rebuffed his overtures for hugs and wrestling, active play, attempting to give Sherlock his first lesson on how to remain aloof and above it all.

That first lesson seemed to set the tone for the relationship that had existed between them for more than thirty years. Their interactions had become contentious and snide, and Mycroft was at a loss as to why. Had a young Mycroft admitted to a vision of himself and his brother as adults, he would have painted a picture of them united in shared intellectual pursuits, an unstoppable dyad. Instead, they were frequently at loggerheads, able to reach common ground only when playing children’s games that represented the last time they had ever been close.

Mycroft heard the shower stop and the sounds of Sherlock toweling off, then sitting heavily on the closed lid of the toilet to put on his trousers. “Sherlock, are you OK?” he called, bracing himself for the inevitable backlash.

Sherlock did not disappoint. “I got shot; I didn’t forget how to take a shower,” he groused as he opened the door, affording Mycroft a look at his bare torso. Mycroft steeled himself to show no reaction, but it was difficult. 

Sherlock was bracing himself against the lavatory counter, preparing to shave. As Sherlock lathered up the badger hair brush with shaving soap and began to apply it, raising his arms with a bit of a repressed groan, Mycroft could see Sherlock’s chest in the bathroom mirror, the pucker of the bullet wound bisected by the scars from the two surgeries required to repair the resulting internal damage. The wounds were healed but still raised and red; he would bear those marks for the remainder of his life. 

Mycroft couldn’t help but feel irrationally to blame; Sherlock was his responsibility. It was preposterous, he knew, for a 43-year-old man to think, but he couldn’t quite quell the feeling that he had let Mummy down. He remembered the day Mummy had told him he had become a big brother. “Now you have a lot of responsibility,” Mummy had said. “It’s a lot of work to be a big brother; Sherlock is so much littler than you, and you have to help me protect him and take care of him.” Clearly, Mycroft had gotten less and less good at that job as time went on.

As Sherlock finished shaving and gingerly raised his arms to slide on his well-worn grey t-shirt, Mycroft rose from the bed and began to pull back the duvet and take the pillows from their protective shams. He reached into his pocket for the bottle of prescription pain killers, shook one out, and wordlessly handed it to Sherlock, who took it and dry-swallowed it with a look somewhere between irritation and gratitude.

“Lunch first, or a nap?” Mycroft asked.

“Mycroft, it’s half eleven in the morning! I just spent three months sleeping the day away; I have work I need to get done,” Sherlock protested, his swaying body telling a different story.

“As do I, brother mine,” said Mycroft. “And you’d be much easier to tolerate if you were asleep,” he said. 

Sherlock grumbled under his breath but indicated his choice by sliding into bed and pulling up the covers, the fine Egyptian cotton sheets slipping over his body like silk, a welcome departure from months of cheap institutional linens. 

Mycroft took one step toward the door and hesitated, starting to speak and then revising his comment before it could leave his mouth. “I’m working from home today, so I’ll be in my study,” he said neutrally, allowing himself the luxury of reaching over to straighten the duvet covering Sherlock’s body. 

“Go,” Sherlock said, already losing the battle against sleep. “I’m not an invalid. At least, not any more.”

“Fine,” Mycroft said, leaving the room and pulling the door quietly shut. As he did, he said, as much to himself as to Sherlock, “But I’m here if you need me.”


End file.
